“Good point.” He shoveled in the last of his eggs, then slid off the stool to go scrape the dregs from the pan to his plate. “You’re an exceptionally gorgeous woman with astounding acrobatic abilities in the sack. You have good taste in movies, terrible taste in candy, and you make a damn good Manhattan, thanks to my incredible teaching, of course.”
“Thank you,” I said graciously. “You’re wrong about Twizzlers. But I love you anyway.”
“As you should. But as for Evan Black …” He trailed off, shaking his head regretfully. “He’s an asshole who doesn’t keep his promises.”
“No, he’s not,” I said.
Flynn burst out laughing. “Oh, man. You really do have it bad.”
I sighed. Because I did. I really did.
Flynn took the last bite of his sausage, then glanced at my mostly untouched plate.
“I’m eating,” I said, shoveling a huge forkful of hash browns into my mouth. “Where are we going this week?” I asked, thumbing my nose at etiquette and talking with my mouth full.
Our weekly museum jaunts had started last May on the very day that we’d moved in together after I’d graduated from Northwestern. Before that, I’d lived on campus and Flynn had kept his tiny bedroom in the groundskeeper’s quarters that came with his father’s job on the massive Kenilworth estate just a few blocks from my uncle Jahn.
Flynn’s father, who rarely left his world of flowers and trees and shrubs, had taken the train into the city the day we moved into the apartment. He’d looked around the room, nodded approval, then pulled his son into a bear hug. I’m pretty sure there were tears in his eyes.
I’d felt a knot of jealousy curve in my belly. The neighborhood was safe and affluent to satisfy my parents’ concerns, but we’d taken the cheapest one bedroom we could find. We’d both wanted to pay our own way, and my starting salary at HJH&A wasn’t exactly impressive. Not that Flynn was doing much better between tending bar and working as a flight attendant. But we figured that we’d make do with me in the bedroom and Flynn in the living room—and the Oak Street Beach just a short bike ride away.
While the setup might have made Flynn’s dad proud, it had only frustrated my father, who made it more than clear that he’d happily buy me a condo if I would just say the word.
I remained silent.
Pops, as Flynn’s father liked to be called, had taken us out to breakfast, then led us to the Red Line. We’d asked no questions, just gone with him until we reached the stop at Roosevelt. Then he walked us to the museum campus, bought a hotdog from a vendor, and pointed to the Field Museum of Natural History. “Whenever you two have a day off,” he said. “Here, there,” he added, indicating the aquarium. “The Art Institute, one of those boat rides that shows you all the buildings. You explore. You learn. You see the world that you’re part of and you live in it. You understand me?” He poked Flynn in the chest. “That goes double for you. The opportunities you have flying all over the country. All over the world.” He sniffed, then pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “If only your mother could see you.”
Flynn eyed me sideways, his expression a little amused and a little embarrassed. But I liked the idea of living in the world. Especially since I sometimes feared that I’d forgotten how to do that.
Now Flynn started the dishwasher before we headed toward the door. “Let’s do the aquarium this week.”
“How about the Art Institute?”
“We went there last week.”
I shrugged.
He eyed me sideways. “If you already knew where you wanted to go, why’d you ask me?”
“An overabundance of politeness?”
“Let me guess. The windows.”
I took his hand and smiled happily. “See how well you know me?”
I feel about the Chagall windows the way some people feel about Notre Dame or the National Cathedral or Westminster Abbey. There is something about the experience of looking at that stained glass, with the oddly fractured images, so many of which seem to have been caught mid-flight, that makes my soul want to soar.